


Still Feel

by siriusmajoris



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Canon Slavery, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Slavery, but man the lore Im looking at is fucking swiss cheese, its in the backstory not the present, listen i love lore and i stick to it when i want to, that I will fill however I see fit, will update tags as we go along
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:54:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25856224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriusmajoris/pseuds/siriusmajoris
Summary: The dragonborn awakens in a Skyrim he no longer recognizes.
Relationships: Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

_ 17th of Morning Star, 4E 201 _

The air is stagnant, dusty. The surface beneath him is cold, hard.  _ Stone. _

Tanavyr groans, his body aching. He tries to sit up but finds himself restrained.  _ Metal. _

_ Shit. _

He opens his eyes slowly, blinking dust away and listening carefully. He isn't sure what he expects-- footsteps, hushed voices. But there's only the sound of gears shifting, steam hissing, fire crackling.

_ Is there no one here? _

He twists against his restraints, turning his wrist to feel the metal holding him in place. It's rough, rusted, and cold.  _ Iron. _ He shifts again, testing where he's pinned in place. A restraint on each wrist, ankle, his upper arms and legs, and his neck.  _ Nine total. _

Tanavyr relaxes, drawing in a deep breath. He purses his lips and stretches out his fingers, preparing a spell. It's a spell of his own design, granting him an idea of his surroundings and detecting creatures-- living, dead, or machine-- all at once. But even this returns nothing to him, save the room's square and empty layout.

He's alone.

He wastes no time. The moment he makes the realization another spell is crossing his fingers, freezing the restraint until it's brittle. He leans all of his weight to his left, twisting his hand until his fingers are touching the metal. He freezes the air around his fingers, the restraint growing even colder.

The metal shatters under his fingers with a crack and the clatter of metal hitting stone.

_ One down. _

He repeats the process on his left wrist, faster now that he can use both hands to cast the spell.

_ Two. _

Tanavyr scans the room as he shifts into position to free his right arm.  _ Still empty. Good. _

He breaks the metal holding his arm.

_ Three. _

Tanavyr takes a deep breath, then freezes the restraint on his left arm until it too breaks.

_ Finally. _

He breaks the restraint on his neck, leans forward, breaks the restraints on his legs until he's freed. He's bleeding in a couple places, but he doesn't care. He stretches his arms, rolls his neck, and rubs the skin on his legs.

Now he has the real work ahead of him.

Tanavyr slides his legs over the edge of the stone slab he'd been laying on. He scoots forward, feet touching the ground. As he moves forward and lets his weight fall on his feet, he crumples forward onto the floor.

"Shit!"

His knees hit the floor, palms slam into stone. As he processes the fall, he slams his hand over his mouth and holds his breath.

_ Did anyone hear me? _ he thinks.

Silence follows and his panic eases.

He'd been so focused on freeing himself he hadn't noticed how  _ frail _ he felt.

_ I will crawl out of here if I have to. _

He shifts his weight to lean back against the stone, breathing heavily. He stretches his fingers and feels for magicka. He didn't use everything on frost spells.  _ Thank Auri-El. _

He gathers magicka into a weak spell, mouthing the words as he casts.  _ Fortify strength. _ He doesn't know how long it will last-- doesn't really care, either. As long as he can get moving, it will be enough.

Tanavyr pulls himself into a crouched position, holding the stone in case he falls again. He cautiously stands and releases his support.

He stumbles over to the archway and releases another pulse of magic. A long hallway stood ahead of him, no discernible exit, and no one else there, either. He nearly wonders where everyone is, but he ignores it, focusing on the task ahead of him.

He walks down the hallway. He lets his hand trace the right side of the wall, desperate not to waste precious magicka in his state just to sense a room he already has a vague idea of. All the while, he listens for changes in his surroundings, terrified that any moment now something will make itself known.

But nothing ever does. He follows winding hallways, empty rooms, cavernous chambers, but never encounters another soul. Hours seem to pass, but he seems no closer to finding an end to the abandoned structure.

He wishes he knew where he was. He would do anything for an idea of a layout. Instead he's forced to approach it as a maze, never once releasing his hold on the righthand wall of the labyrinthine structure.

Tanavyr grows weaker by the hour, his magicka slowly draining as he progresses through the halls. His stomach rumbles, but the best he's been able to find were a couple mushrooms, a risk he isn't willing to take. He may already be blind, but he has no idea what other side effects the mushrooms may have and he isn't keen to find out. A small fountain in one of the chambers is his only relief-- he's been too afraid to waste magicka on gathering something to drink.

He wonders if his caution will kill him, but he  _ knows _ a lack of restraint will. He follows the walls diligently, focusing on listening to distract himself from his own exhaustion.

It is only when he finds food that he decides he must rest. He follows the wall until he finds a small, nondescript room-- a storage closet, he realizes. He closes the door behind him, carefully lying down and curling up in the cramped space. He passes out almost instantly, too exhausted to even worry if he'll be discovered.

.

As he walks on the second day, he realizes that some walls that he'd thought were still being built were quite the opposite--  _ they'd caved in. _

_ Disaster has struck this place, _ he thinks.

But no disaster he'd ever seen had left a place empty without even a trace. There were no bodies, no bones. These people had evacuated and left him behind.

On the third day, he is forced to defend himself for the first time. Three spider constructs converge on him as he exits a hallway, and he realizes that he must choose between looking for another path or fighting his way forward.

_ I will  _ not _ waste precious time backtracking. _

And so he fights. The sparks fly from his fingers in a way that feels unnatural compared to frost. But the lightning is effective, and he knows his ice magic does little to these machines.

The spider constructs are weak, but Tanavyr knows he is weaker. He aims his spells carefully, dodges at the slightest changes in the whirs of the machines. They land several cuts on his arms; he grabs one by its leg and electrifies it until it's silent. Another jumps at his back and nearly knocks him over. He stumbles into unsteady footing, turning around and shooting a lightning bolt at it. The third proves easiest to kill, now that he can give it his full attention. Another lightning bolt and it too falls apart, pieces rolling past his feet.

He only wishes any of it could be useful to him.

Tanavyr isn't forced to fight anything else the rest of the day, and he takes his rest early, not wanting to push his luck or energy.

He loses track of what day he enters a hallway with a slight incline, going straight ahead as far as he can sense. He follows it for six hours, only once finding water through a natural spring four hours into the hall. But there is no food, no side rooms, no branching paths.

_ This has to be it. This has to lead to the surface. But it isn't like the dwemer to build a long ramp where a lift will do. No. It leads somewhere else. _

But the incline meant he's going  _ up _ , and that is better than anything else he'd found the last few days.

At the end of hour six, the hall finally changes. The incline flattens out and the hall begins to wind. Eventually he has to climb down a set of stairs leading to a doorway. The metal doors open into a large, empty room.

The heat hits him first.

Tanavyr shudders as he immediately begins to sweat, wiping at his forehead and breathing heavily. The previously solid stone floor has changed to lava covered by metal grates.  _ By the Eight… how deep underground am I? _

He shakes his head, feeling almost feverish in the room.  _ I need to get out of here. _

To his left were three storerooms. He ignores them in favor of another hallway ahead of him, praying that it will take him away from the lava, the heat.

He climbs a flight of stairs, turns right, climbs another. Another hallway, but a strange noise echoes past the stone.

_ Running water. _

He sprints ahead, sweaty and dehydrated.

_ Please let it be water. _

He lets go of the wall as he runs, instead using magic to sense the hallway. The top of the stairs opens into a cavern, too large for him to sense its end. In the center of the room is a large,  _ old  _ tree. It towers above him, but he ignores it. He follows the sound of the water into the room across from him. Tanavyr drops to his knees when he reaches it, gingerly reaching forward with his right hand to test the temperature.  _ Cold. _

Without hesitation, he reaches with both hands and splashes the water on his face, wiping away sweat. He leans forward and messily drinks from the river, beginning to catch his breath.

He adjusts to rest his feet in the water, taking deep breaths and letting himself cool off.

Eventually, he leans backward until he's lying down, closing his eyes to rest but too alert to sleep.

As he allows himself to cool off, he takes note of his surroundings. There's movement in the air, unlike the stagnant rooms he's been wandering for a week, and airflow and rushing water is unusual for the dwemer.

_ This is a natural cave, then. _

It  _ almost _ feels like being on the surface. But more importantly, the cavern isn't filled with structures. In fact, as far as he can tell, it is a grand entrance of sorts. There's an enormous staircase leading down the cavern, and a much larger, imposing doorway between the room he'd entered from and the one he's in now.

Tanavyr sits up, splashing his face and taking one more drink before rising to his feet.

_ This has to be the entrance to the city. _

He ignores the central door in favor of the stairs. There are fires on either side of him, presumably to light the way and look grand from afar. He doesn't care; he climbs down the first set of stairs. The second set has a pavilion in the center, which he also ignores as he descends. Another set of fires, and a large, inanimate construct on either side of the stairs.  _ Statues? _

At the bottom of the stairs is a lone stone archway, marking the center and the abrupt cliffs on either side. As far as he can tell, the river pools beneath him into a lake at the bottom of the cliff, one he has no desire to fall into. Only a narrow stone path in the archway stands between him and the depths.

He crouches as he crosses the stone bridge, careful to stay close to the center. It connects to an island of stone, still high above the lake, and to his left is another stone bridge. On the other side of the bridge, he senses more stairs.

"Gods damn these stairs," he growls to himself, taking a breath and beginning yet another ascent.

More fires mark the way, and at the top of the stairs stands a fire to his right and a fountain to his left. Ahead of him, a large, gated archway, leading to two smaller rooms that end abruptly. The farthest room is rounded, with a lever sitting dead center.

_ A lift! _

Tanavyr rushes ahead. He yanks the lever, sliding onto his knees as the lift begins to rise.  _ Thank the Eight. _

He loses track of how long it ascends-- what he does know is it's easily the tallest lift he's been in. He doesn't care. For as long as he's in the lift, he knows no one can come for him, the confined space providing a strange sense of security.

As he waits, he takes stock of his own condition. He's starving, his body is sore and aching, and he's used nearly all of his magicka. The intense heat of the room he'd entered into had taken its toll too. Even now, he finds himself wiping sweat off of his forehead, feels almost as if he's suffocating as he tries to breathe. He needs shelter, food, rest. He knows it will take weeks to recover from the effects of stasis, and even more to recover from how much he has pushed himself.

The lift shudders to a halt and the earth around him begins to move. What begins as a low rumble turns to a roar so loud he finds himself covering his ears, the ground shaking so much he worries the shaft will collapse on him. But as the earth thunders around him, the lift starts up again, raising him into the center of the noise.

Minutes pass, and he realizes that he's nearly at the top of the shaft judging by the stone above him. The ground shudders as he goes up and seems to twist around and rise with him.

_ It's… it's rising out of the ground! _

He grits his teeth and closes his eyes, holding the lever for support as the shaking grows stronger. Almost as soon as it started, it stops, and the lift stops with it. More rumbling follows, but this time only from the wall behind him. He spins around to face it, the wall sinking into the ground before him.

And through it, wind.

_ Finally, the surface. _

Tanavyr takes a cautious step outside and for the first time in years, breathes in  _ fresh air _ . A few more careful steps forward and he feels grass and snow beneath his bare feet.

A deep breath.

_ You're free. _

Another. Snow begins to coat his hair and he barely notices.

_ You can't linger here. _

He takes off in a sprint. He doesn't know where he is, where he's going, but as long as it is  _ not here _ , it's good enough.

He doesn't stop when his breathing grows ragged. He casts a spell to give himself more stamina, magicka be damned. He doesn't stop when his legs begin to ache. He uses magic to sense the way ahead but trips over small branches and stones several times, scraping his hands and knees.

Tanavyr only stops running when he no longer has enough magicka to know his surroundings. Instead he walks, one hand ahead of him looking for obstacles.

The temperature begins to drop.

Tanavyr doesn't pay it any mind.

The wind picks ups around him.

He struggles against it, but he refuses to stop.

Snow turns to flurry, flying all around him.

He shuts his eyes and presses onward.

Snow gathers on the ground, making it harder and harder to walk.

He's forced to slow down, but still he moves ahead.

_ Anywhere but here. _

He trudges through the snow, each step harder than the last.

_ Anywhere… but… here… _

He loses his footing and falls into the snow.

_ Anywhere… _

He tries to lift himself off the ground but struggles to find the strength in his arms.

_ But… _

He lets himself lie in the snow, breathing raggedly.

_ Here. _

Tanavyr closes his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the fic title, sorry for any confusion!

_ 23rd of Morning Star, 4E 201 _

"Why isn't Klimmek going? Why not send it up with one of the pilgrims?" Morgia crosses her arms and narrows her eyes at her father as she takes a step forward. "I don't see why  _ you _ have to do it."

"Klimmek is sick and isn't going to be able to go up any time soon. Besides, it's an  _ honor _ to assist the Greybeards, Morgia, not a chore," her father says, not seeming very convinced of his own words.

Morgia scoffs. "Climbing the Seven Thousand Steps for nothing in return  _ is _ a chore, father."

Her father chuckles, shaking his head. "Well,  _ chore _ or not, I'm doing it. Just watch the farm while I'm gone, will you?"

She sighs, relenting and smiling at her father. "Fine. Be quick about it?"

"As quick as climbing the Seven Thousand Steps can be."

.

He leaves within the hour, catching the rest of the early morning light to begin the trek.

He told her he planned to return before evening tomorrow. She doesn't mind him being gone, even if it leaves her alone in the house for a couple days, but she still doesn't understand why he was going in the first place.

They're  _ monks _ , not prisoners-- surely they're capable of getting their own supplies if the pilgrims don't bring enough?

She shakes her head as she walks into the barn to begin her own chores. She gives the cows and chickens their daily feed and gathers eggs in a basket. She doesn't let the animals out to the pens when she leaves, noting the dusting of snow still on the ground. It had snowed a few days ago, and every day seems colder than the last even though the end of winter should be creeping closer and closer.

Wind blows through her hair, making it difficult to see.  _ I need to put it up before I do the rest of the chores.  _ She walks back inside and shivers the whole way.  _ Maybe get my coat, too. _

As she comes through the door, she grabs a loaf of bread off the table and splits it in half. She uses a knife to cut a hole into the middle of the bread and stuffs it with snowberry jam. She leaves the bread on a plate by the fire before she sits at the table and begins to carefully braid and pin back her hair.

With her hair up and still waiting for her bread to warm up, she glances around the room.  _ I should clean before Father returns, _ she decides. Neither she nor her father are particularly clean people; Morgia has left books strewn about the room in often precarious piles, and her father has in turn left things wherever it was most convenient, like a sack of apples that  _ should _ be in the cellar that instead leaned against one of the book stacks, or a pitchfork that  _ should _ be in the barn instead left in the corner of the room beside the door.

Morgia shovels the bread into her mouth as she realizes she has her work cut out for her for the day. But before she can begin cleaning, she needs to pay a visit to Klimmek. Irritated with the supplies delivery situation or not, Klimmek being ill won't do the town any good. She takes a large bowl and fills it with porridge from the cookpot and quickly pulls on her coat before heading out again.

She follows the river past a few worn houses to reach Klimmek's place, directly across from the Vilemyr Inn. It's a short walk, but Soliril's dog comes up to greet her, sniffing at the bowl and barking a few times. "I can't give you any, I'm sorry," she says as she gives the dog a pat on the head. "Maybe later?" The dog barks excitedly and takes off down the street, leaving Morgia laughing in its wake. She doesn't really know Soliril, just that the high elf has been in town for a couple months now, reportedly due to the "seclusion" and "distance from the cities," a sentiment she finds quite rude for a town that regularly gets pilgrims. But otherwise, Soliril seems polite enough that she doesn't actively avoid the man, and once or twice she'd spoken to him about his childhood in the Summerset Isles.

When she reaches the door, she knocks politely before waltzing inside, not even waiting for a response. "Oh-- good morning, Morgia," Klimmek says as she comes inside.

Morgia nods at the Nord, noting that he's in bed and his voice is more gravelly than usual. "Morning. Father told me you were ill, so I brought you some porridge, and I'll bring some more tonight if you'd like." She places the bowl on the table beside his bed. Klimmek opens his mouth to answer but coughs instead. "Yeah, definitely coming by tonight, and don't bother trying to talk me out of it."

Klimmek's cough slowly turns into a laugh. "I know better than to argue with  _ you _ , Morgia. And thank you."

"Get some rest, now. It won't do to have Father making any more deliveries for you."

Klimmek nods. "You don't have to ask me twice."

Morgia walks home quickly, noting that the wind has picked up a bit from earlier.  _ I hope it's not too windy on the mountain. _

.

Morgia spends her day climbing in and out of the cellar as she deals with a few months' worth of clutter. She takes book after book into the cellar, takes out supplies they need, puts away some they don't… Tedious, but necessary. As the day passes, the wind gets louder at an alarming rate.  _ Something's not right, _ she knows, but she doesn't want to dwell on things she can't control and pours herself into her tasks.

Evening rolls around and Morgia is finally forced to put her work on hold to bring Klimmek the porridge she promised. Another bowl filled and her coat pulled on, Morgia steps outside and is greeted with the snow and high winds she's been hearing all day.  _ It's a storm _ .

The worst of it has almost certainly not come yet, she knows. She jogs up to Klimmek's house and delivers the porridge quickly before popping over to the inn where she could hopefully get news from a pilgrim about the state of the mountain.

Wilhelm waves at Morgia as she comes inside. Seeing only one pilgrim who she doesn't recognize, she makes a beeline straight to Wilhelm instead. "Have you heard anything about the weather today? On the mountain, I mean," she asks.

Wilhelm shakes his head. "A pilgrim arrived at noon from Riften, but nobody's climbed the steps in a few days. Except Inge, I hear, but you know that."

Inge. Her father.  _ Great. _

"You think he'll be alright up there in the storm?" she asks, nervously rubbing her thumb against her finger.

He nods and offers a comforting smile. "No doubt. It'll take more than a storm to bring down a Nord like Inge. Besides, I bet he's already reached the top and made camp for the evening. If it comes down to it, he can always eat some of the supplies he brought up." Wilhelm laughs while Morgia rolls her eyes. "Look, have this on the house. It's not much but maybe it'll take some of the edge off, yeah?"

He reaches under the counter and takes out a slim bottle of mead and a snowberry tart. "You don't have to do that," Morgia says.

Wilhelm shrugs. "You brought Klimmek food. I was gonna do that, so let's just call it even alright?"

She takes them gratefully, carefully wrapping the tart in a cloth to save for later. "Thank you, Wilhelm."

He nods. "It's no trouble."

Morgia fights the wind as she walks home, glad she lives so close by. Technically, she lives on the edge of town and the inn is its center, but Ivarstead is so small it makes no real difference. She prefers it this way-- she doesn't have to see the pilgrims unless she wants to, really, and she lives right beside the bridge heading into the forest, which is  _ far _ more interesting to wander than the town is.

As Morgia steps inside, she has trouble shutting the door behind her. She also finds herself shaking snow out of her hair and coat, so she lays her coat beside the fire to dry it off. She puts the mead and tart on the table, not quite ready for it, and returns to cleaning her home.

.

A loud slam wakes Morgia in an instant. She groans, slowly lifting her head. She's sitting in a chair in the corner of the room with a broom leaned on the wall beside her.  _ I fell asleep cleaning… _ she realizes.

Another bang. Morgia jumps to her feet fully alert and looking around the room before realizing that the sound was from outside. She's surprised she heard anything-- the wind howls so loudly she can barely hear the crackling of the fire right beside her as she grabs her coat, quickly pulling it over herself as she runs out the door.

It's the middle of the night and the snow is so heavy she can't see more than a few feet ahead of her, let alone whatever made the noise.

"Hello?" she yells. "Is there someone out there?" Did her father make it back? Is he trying to get inside despite the weather?

Morgia steps forward.

"Hello?!"

No one answers.

_ Damn it. _

Morgia struggles to close the door, pulling and pushing with all her strength until leaning against it until it finally clicks into place. She pulls her hood over her head and holds it tightly in place as she trudges through the snow, wind nearly pushing her backwards. Ten difficult steps forward and she can finally see the barn, where the door is clattering against the barn wall in the wind.

So that was what she heard-- the barn door flew open.

Morgia trudges closer as her feet sink into several inches of snow. As she reaches the doorway she can see the animals huddled in the back away from the wind and,  _ thank the gods _ , she counts them all as present.  _ None of them ran out _ .

She takes a long rope from inside the barn before going to the door and tying it around the handle.  _ I have to shut this tight or it'll just blow open again. _ Tying it was the easy part, she realizes, as she has even more difficulty pushing this door than the one to her home due to its size. She presses both hands against it and leans her weight against it, fighting for each little step she takes with it against the wind.

"Come… on… you stupid… door!" she mutters as she struggles.

_ Click. _ The door slides into the frame and shuts as Morgia breathes a sigh of relief. She can feel the cold seeping in from standing out in the storm for too long, her fingers starting to feel numb while she begins knotting the rope between the door and a hook on the wall.  _ Tie the rope and go inside, it won't take long. _

It's as Morgia turns to go back inside that a harsh wind knocks her off her feet and sends her tumbling a few feet back, away from her home. She groans before sitting up and huddling into her coat. "Gods damn it!" she curses, struggling back onto her feet.

Behind her, she hears something else,  _ not _ wind,  _ not _ a barn door, but she can't quite make out what it is.

"Hello?!" she yells again, this time as loudly as she can.

She hears it again.

_ Is that… barking? _

"Get over here! Come back inside!"

More barking, but the dog doesn't seem to be moving.  _ Nine Divines, I can't just leave a dog outside in this… _

" _ Come on _ , don't stay there!"

The dog cries loudly in response, firmly in place as far as she can tell, and she recognizes it this time--  _ it's Soliril's dog. _

Morgia grits her teeth, glancing at the barn door. The rope holding it in place must be at least twenty feet, enough for her to have something to follow back to the house if she goes out.

_ I can't believe I'm doing this _ . She tugs on the rope, testing the strength of her knotwork, and once satisfied, starts walking towards the dog. In her free hand, she summons a light-- she's never learned much about magic, but her mother made sure she knew the spells that were  _ useful. _

"I'm coming!" she shouts. "Damn it, what's your name again?" Only Soliril really called the dog by name, and she hadn't heard it lately.  _ Mavi? No… _ Morgia trudges into the snow, unable to see anything ahead of her and only comforted by the rope in her hands.  _ Lavi? _

The dog barks and whines, seeming closer now.

"Come here!"

The dog stays put and Morgia groans.

_ Was it Lovi? That sounds right… _

"Lovi, come here boy!"

Lovi howls in response.  _ Is he stuck in the snow? _

Morgia stumbles forward until she can see the dog, almost out of rope to follow. "Lovi, come!" Lovi barks and paws at the snow before looking at her again. "What is it boy?"

Lovi digs into the snow for a moment before looking at her and barking once more.

Morgia walks over to the dog, barely any rope left. She shudders as she leans over to examine the snow Lovi seems so interested in. "There's nothing here, come on boy."

Lovi woofs and digs at the snow, then looks at her expectantly.

"You're going to kill me, did you know that?" she mutters as she drops onto her knees to look closer.

She uses her hand to push some snow back and instead is met with only a thin layer of snow and something solid beneath.  _ What the hell? _

She begins investigating and pushing more snow out of the way, slowly realizing that it's a  _ person _ . "Oh gods," she whispers. She dusts off as much snow as she can, shaking the person in front of her with no response.  _ Oh gods please don't be dead. _ They're face down in the snow, perfectly still.  _ Are they breathing? _ she wonders as she takes their shoulder and uses it to roll them onto their back.

Even with her candlelight, it's hard to see with all the snow around her and covering him, but it seems to be an elven man she's never seen in town.  _ Did he get lost in the storm? _

Morgia glances at Lovi. "Help me out," she mutters, sure the dog won't understand but saying it anyway. Lovi nudges the stranger then looks at Morgia. "Yeah I thought that was too much to ask for."

She leans over the stranger, putting her ear to his lips and listening for breathing. A soft exhale follows a few seconds later, then silence.  _ He's alive! _

"Good boy Lovi!" she says, carefully maneuvering the stranger to prepare to lift him.  _ He's so heavy… _ She groans, hefting his upper body over her shoulder. She wraps her arm around his leg to hold his hand to get him in place, holding his leg still with her other hand. She takes a deep breath and forces herself to her feet with the stranger draped over her. "Shor's bones, could you weigh any more?" she groans.

The trudge back to the barn is far more difficult than the first. She takes a deep breath before each step, fighting against the wind, the stranger's weight, and the cold. Lovi follows at her feet, carrying the rope in his mouth and leading the way forward.  _ Soliril's trained him well. _

By the time she reaches the barn, she struggles not to drop him.  _ It's only… a few more steps… inside… _ she thinks as she forces herself forward. She's chilled to the bone and is panting with each step, but she refuses to let this stranger die in the storm.

As she approaches the door, Lovi runs ahead, biting at the handle. He's too small to open it through the wind and piled snow, but he keeps trying until Morgia is right behind him.  _ Alright. _ She drops the stranger as carefully as she can with what strength she has left and grabs the handle, forcing the door and allowing the wind to push it all the way open. She takes the stranger's hands, dragging him through the doorway enough for the door to shut. As she steps outside to get the door, Lovi runs in past her, sniffing at the stranger. Morgia takes the door handle, wrenching it forward until it slowly swings back shut.

With the door closed and the stranger and Lovi inside, Morgia leans against the wall and slides to the floor, breathing heavily. "Gods, I'm going to freeze!" She shudders, pulling her coat closer and trying to slow her breathing.

As she tries to warm up, she finally gets a good look at the stranger on the floor. His skin is pale, almost colorless with only a slight blue tint in the light. His ears are pointed and poke out from long white hair. A faint glimmer alerts her to large golden hoop earrings. On his face is a deep teal tattoo and his clothing is a combination of loosely draped gray fabric and bandages, unlike anything she's ever seen before.

Who  _ is _ this man, and what is he doing here?

_ He doesn't look like a pilgrim at all, _ she realizes. Besides, she never really saw pilgrims that weren't Nords, let alone an elf. To be quite honest, she's not entirely sure what kind of elf he is, either. He's far too pale to be a dark elf, too tall to be a wood elf, and she thought high elves were usually more… golden. But he must be a high elf, right? What else would he be?  _ I swear to the Nine, if I just rescued a Thalmor… _

She shakes her head. She can always throw him out and let the wilderness finish him if he is.

Morgia forces herself to her feet, still frozen to her core but ready to get to work. Her first task is to get the stranger warm. Since her father's bed is only a few feet away, she pushes wool blankets out of the way to make space for him then hefts him over her shoulders. She staggers over to the bed, lowers him down, and covers him in blankets. Then she leans forward and listens, frozen still until she hears another weak breath.  _ Good, he's still alive… _ Morgia places her hand on his forehead and recoils at the contact, his skin ice cold to the touch.  _ Maybe not for long. _

She rushes into the cellar and grabs a stack of blankets before running upstairs, nearly tripping over herself in the process.  _ This cold will kill him. _ Once back at his bedside, she unfolds two fur blankets and pulls them over the stranger, careful to cover even his chin to help keep him warm.

_ Now I wait _ .

She absently tosses a blanket on the ground for Lovi and wraps herself in one. She curls up on the floor next to the fire, Lovi quickly coming up beside her, and stares at the stranger. The snow in his hair isn't melting and he doesn't seem to be moving, though she knows he's breathing.  _ I don't think he's going to make it. _

.

Hours pass before the stranger begins to move in his sleep. He doesn't wake as he slowly tosses and turns, and his breathing strengthens to labored panting. Lovi seems to recognize the stranger's poor condition and jumps onto the bed to curl around him.

But no matter how many blankets she gives him, or how long Lovi sleeps beside him, the stranger is always cold to the touch.  _ How strange… _

After awhile, the stranger begins to sweat and turn more. Morgia wipes at his forehead with a cloth but it doesn't seem to help, so instead she folds it up and leaves it on his forehead. He pushes his blankets away as he sleep. Morgia pulls them in tighter and tries to tuck the stranger in, but every time she does he begins weakly kicking them away.  _ He acts like he's feverish _ , she thinks, but he's still so cold. Once or twice he seems to open his eyes, flitting in and out of consciousness as he moves blankets away, but never aware or  _ really _ awake.

_ I hope he'll be okay. _


	3. Chapter 3

_ 24th of Morning Star, 4E 201 _

Morgia wakes to a soft sound, maybe a voice, though she hears nothing after it.

She blinks the sleep from her eyes as she sits up in her chair and remembers that she'd fallen asleep watching over the stranger. She can feel Lovi at her feet, asleep right underneath her. As she becomes more aware, she sees the stranger upright in the bed, head down and shaking slightly. He's pushed all the blankets off now, once again revealing his strange clothing.  _ Where is he from? _ she wonders as she quietly slips out of the chair, carefully approaching the stranger.

"You're awake?" she whispers.

The stranger flinches and she tenses up.  _ Did I scare him? _

“I-I was worried that you weren’t going to, um… never mind.” Her voice is soft-spoken and groggy from her exhaustion, her thoughts still difficult to form _. _ “Do you… are you hungry?” she murmurs.

The stranger gives a careful nod of his head in response.

Morgia doesn't answer as she moves to the fire and begins attending to the cook pot. She fills it with water, allowing it to boil as she shreds some chicken she'd cooked earlier. It won't be much, but it'll be fast and, she hopes, easy on the stranger's stomach.

“A-are you feeling any better?” she asks as she adds the chicken and some light seasoning to the pot.

Silence follows. When it becomes clear that he’s not going to answer, she begins nervously humming and stirring in tune.

She doesn’t say anything else as she cooks. She doesn't even bother turning to look at the stranger as surely he's too weak to do very much.

Ten minutes pass before she finishes cooking. Morgia grows even more nervous in the stranger's silence, even though she knows it's not fair to expect much from him in his state. She fills the bowl quietly and quickly, knowing from the steam that it's piping hot.

She walks back over to the stranger and gently taps his shoulder.

The stranger jumps. His breath catches and he jerks away from her, looking towards her though he doesn't meet her eyes.

"S-Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," she says. "The um… the soup is ready."

The stranger huffs out a breath and turns his head back down. Morgia stands awkwardly holding the soup, waiting for him to calm down.

An uncomfortable moment passes. The stranger doesn't move or speak, the only sounds in the room the crackling of the fire and their breathing. She shifts her weight between her feet, wanting to give him a moment so she doesn't frighten him a third time. Finally, he lifts his hand in her direction, palm up and fingers spread expectantly. She gingerly places the bowl in his palm and he brings it close to his chest, holding it steady between both hands.

"Thank you," he whispers. His voice so quiet it's almost inaudible.

Morgia blinks in shock and nearly convinces herself that he hadn't actually spoken.

"Y-Y-You're welcome," she sputters. "There's more, if that's not… if you're still hungry."

He doesn't respond to her as he brings the soup to his lips. He eats quickly and silently, never once turning to look at her. Morgia takes a step backward, uncomfortable standing so close to him and watching with nothing to occupy her hands. When he finishes he sets the bowl down on his legs and finally turns his head towards her.

"Why are you helping me?" he asks.

Morgia blinks again. "Well you were… I found you unconscious in the blizzard."

The stranger brushes his hair back, allowing her to see his face for the first time since he'd awoken. His eyes are pale blue with a faint lavender ring at the center going over his pupils and making them seem dim. He seems unfocused and though he'd just turned to look at her, he quickly lowers his head as if avoiding her gaze.

"A… blizzard?" he murmurs. Morgia nods. "I remember… I remember the wind, and the snow… and…" he mumbles to himself so quietly she cannot hear him, though she watches intently. "I… I must have passed out."

"How are you feeling?" she asks.

The stranger shakes his head and furrows his brows. "Who are you?"

"Oh!" she laughs. "I'm sorry, I should have introduced myself when you woke. My name is Morgia Ingesdottir."

"Mor… Morgia," he repeats. He lifts his head again, placing his hands over his chest before weakly leaning forward. "Thank you, Morgia." He holds the bow for a moment before sitting up again, leaning back against the wall and looking at the ceiling.

"What's  _ your _ name, stranger?"

He seems to tense at the question and sits up a little to look ahead. "I… I guess I owe you that much," he says. "I am Tanavyr Erenwen, the Farseeker."

Morgia stares.  _ That's… a lot. _ “That’s a very pretty name,” she murmurs.

“Um… thanks.” Tanavyr fiddles with the soup bowl uncomfortably. When it becomes clear that he no longer wishes to talk, Morgia melts back into her chair and realizes just how tired she still is.

She nearly falls asleep waiting for him to break the silence.

“I’m sorry to impose upon your kindness,” he whispers. “It shouldn’t be very long before I can head out.”

Morgia sits up and opens her eyes from nodding off. “It’s no trouble, r-really! You needn’t force yourself, you can stay as long as you need.” Tanavyr turns to the soup bowl he’s been fidgeting with as Morgia decides to change the subject. “Um, was that enough to eat?” she asks.

“I’m fine.”

Morgia studies him carefully. “Are you sure?”

Tanavyr’s resolve cracks easily. “No, I… I don’t think it was enough,” he whispers.

She nods, rising to her feet once again. She walks over to the bed and waits once again for Tanavyr, who shows no indication of moving. “I can fill that, if you’d like,” she says.

The elf flinches again and turns his head towards her with his eyes narrowed into a glare. “Stop doing that.”

Morgia takes a nervous step back. “Doing what?”

“Sneaking up on me,” he growls through grit teeth.

“I-I’m sorry, I don’t mean to frighten you,” she whispers.

Tanavyr relaxes his shoulders and unclenches his jaw in response, cautiously lifting his gaze. Then he sighs, leaning back against the wall again. “It’s not your fault,” he grumbles. “I’m just on edge.” He tilts his head back towards her, eyes still unfocused. “I don’t mean to be rude I just…” He pauses. “Never mind.”

Morgia bites her lip, his discomfort so strong she can practically feel it rolling over her. “Is there something else I can do for you?” she whispers.

Tanavyr shifts uneasily and tilts his head. “Where… where am I?” he asks. “I can’t… I can’t get a sense of it.”

_ No wonder he’s so anxious, he's  _ definitely _ lost. _

“You’re in Ivarstead, east of Riften.”

He shakes his head. “No, I meant,” he groans, almost irritated with himself. “I meant  _ this place _ .”

Morgia smiles. “Oh, this is my home. I know it’s not much, but please make yourself comfortable-- there’s not another town for miles so unfortunately you’ll have to make do here.”

Tanavyr rubs at his forehead before running his fingers through his hair and pulling it out of his face again. “Right,” he murmurs. Something about his tone seemed as if she still hadn’t answered the right question, but he didn’t try to correct her again.

“So… did you want more soup?” she asks.

“Please.”

He lifts the bowl for her, still staring straight ahead as she leans forward to take it. She fills the bowl without ceremony, though something on the table catches her eyes.

Morgia pauses. “Do you like sweets?”

"I guess…?"

She takes the snowberry tart and mead off of the table and places them onto a tray with the soup so she doesn't risk dropping them. Then she places a loaf of bread on it as well, afraid that he may not feel well enough to eat the pastry. "I was saving these for later," she starts as she brings the tray over, "but I think they might do you better right now."

Tanavyr tenses as she places the tray in his lap, though this time he doesn't flinch. "You don't have to," he says.

Morgia shakes her head. "It's fine, I promise. Though," she laughs, looking down at the tray. "Maybe I went a little overboard. I'm not sure if you'll want this much."

Tanavyr furrows his brows for a moment, sitting quietly as he gently takes hold of the tray to keep it steady. Then he traces his fingers across it, only stopping when he touches the pastry. "What is this?" he murmurs.

"A snowberry tart-- do you, um, like those?" she murmurs.

He shrugs slightly as he moves his hand again until touching the mead. "And this?"

Morgia furrows her brows. "Mead."

Tanavyr moves to the next item on the tray, the soup, and ignores it in favor of the bread, which he takes into his hand and studies for a moment before taking a bite out of it. "You weren't kidding when you said it was a lot," he says in between bites.

She grimaces, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks in embarrassment. "You don't have to finish it all, I just… I wasn't sure what you wanted."

His lip twitches into a slight smile in return. "Thank you."

Morgia steps back into her chair, accidentally hitting Lovi with her foot in the process, which finally wakes the dog from his deep sleep. She pats the dog on the head as if to apologize. "You know, you still haven't answered my question," she says.

Tanavyr pauses from his food and raises a brow, turning towards her. "What?"

"How are you feeling? Is there anything else you need?" she asks. The elf bites his lower lip and fidgets with it, avoiding the question. "It's okay if you do, I mean, I don't have that much, I just want to make sure you're alright…"

He sighs, releasing his lip. "I don't know," he whispers. He leans his forehead into his palm, taking a deep breath. "I don't know what I need. I-I don't have anything, I don't know where I am, gods I'm too weak to even know what's in this room." He lets out a huff of frustration, but Morgia's attention is caught on his last words.  _ What's in this room…? What does he mean? _ "I don't have anyone left to go to or somewhere to stay, I don't even have any money to repay you for your kindness--"

"You don't have to repay me," she interrupts. "I'm not-- I didn't help you for  _ money _ . You can stay as long as you need to, I don't expect anything in return."

Tanavyr shakes his head and laughs bitterly. "I can't stay. Not here."

Morgia crosses her arms. "Well, it doesn't matter right now anyway, you're not getting anywhere in this storm."

He laughs again. "A little snow won't kill me." There is a confidence in his voice that makes her almost believe him, if she hadn't just rescued him from a blizzard herself.

"I found you on the brink of death in the snow-- I think you're a bit delusional if you think you can survive outside in this storm."

The elf shrugs. " _ That _ was starvation," he says, but then he sighs. "But you're right, I'm in no condition to leave." The frustration in his voice is palpable-- everything is stacked against him and it seems he just wants to leave  _ now _ .

"Where would you go?" she whispers.

Tanavyr frowns. "I don't know."

Morgia watches him intently. Lovi finally stands up in the silence, stretching his long legs before jumping onto the bed. Tanavyr yelps, shrinking away and knocking the tray over in the process. Boiling hot soup spills onto the bed and his left leg, causing him to flinch again and let out a noise that almost sounded like a whine. "Shit," he growls, a hint of surprise still present in his voice.

Tanavyr scoots back in the bed away from the soup, weakly pulling his leg close to his chest to avoid any further burns. As Morgia processes what happened, she leaps out of her chair to help. She gives Lovi a gentle push off the bed before taking the tray off of the floor and beginning to clean up the mess. She collects everything off the bed and places them on the nightstand-- fortunately, the snowberry tart escaped unscathed still wrapped in its cloth, and the mead hadn't opened. She takes the towel that had been on his forehead and unfolds it, quickly pressing it to his leg and causing him to flinch again.

"Stop _ doing that! _ " he snarls, pulling away from her. "Stop _ touching me! _ " He winces as he speaks, gripping his upper leg tightly in his hand. She can see the skin quickly changing color from pale whiteish blue to red before he moves to let his legs hang off the edge of the bed, away from her. Tanavyr scoots forward until he's weakly standing in front of her, left hand still gripping his leg and right hand outstretched before him, touching the wall. He limps closer to the wall to use it for support. "I need snow," he whispers, limping past the bed. “The cold.”

_ Right, _ she thinks. Before she can think better of it, she swings the door open and allows the freezing weather in. It’s bright out now but the wind is still raging and the snow is still whiting everything out. She quickly grabs her coat and pulls it close while Tanavyr keeps limping towards the door. Lovi runs up to his left. pressing his nose into the elf’s burned leg and rubbing against him. Tanavyr gently moves his hand from clutching the burn to holding the dog’s head before cautiously releasing the wall.

"D-Do you need help walking?" she asks, afraid of upsetting him any further.

He shakes his head, limping towards the door. Morgia steps out of the way into the storm and pulls her coat over her nose. The snow is about a foot high on the ground now, though not packed enough to make it difficult to open the door.  _ It's gonna be harder tonight. _ She suspects that if she hadn't gone out last night, opening the door even now would have been a much more difficult feat.

Tanavyr leans a bit more on Lovi now that he's away from the wall, slowly limping through the open door. The cold doesn't faze him-- he doesn't even flinch as he comes out into the storm, briefly using the doorframe for support. "Do you want a blanket?" she asks.

He shakes his head again, stubbornly refusing her help. As soon as he steps into the snow, he releases his hold on Lovi and drops to his knees. Lovi runs back into the house, spinning in a circle to stare at the pair of them from the safety of relative warmth. Tanavyr remains silent as he takes a handful of snow and presses it to the burn on his leg.  _ Now _ , he flinches-- as he presses it harder against his leg, he winces in pain. Then he takes another handful and repeats the process until he's covered almost all of the exposed skin, even the parts that didn’t get injured.

The elf takes a deep breath, allows his features to relax into a perfect calm, and holds his hands carefully above the snow. She sees his lips move slightly, his eyes shut as his hands beginning glowing a faint blue and snow turns to ice.

He stops as quickly as he started, the calm broken as he seems to struggle to breathe and nearly falls forward before barely catching himself and leaning his weight into his hands. “I think…” he huffs. “I could use… that help now…”

It takes her a moment to snap out of her thoughts and process what he said. “Oh,” she says. “Okay.”

As she steps forward the snow crunches under her feet. Tanavyr doesn’t seem to have the strength to lift himself out of the snow, yet he weakly raises his right hand as she approaches, allowing her to take it. She crouches in front of him and places his hand on her shoulder, giving him something to hold on to as she carefully takes his other hand. He takes her should more easily this time and Morgia places her hands on his bare waist. “Ready?”

Tanavyr nods.

Morgia lets out a long breath as she lifts Tanavyr, quickly realizing that the ice on his leg is bending with him rather than holding his knee in place. He grips her shoulders and puts all his weight onto his right leg, and Morgia quickly finds herself face to face with him. At least, as much as they can be with him being a head taller than her, only slightly leaning forward to hold himself up with her help.

"Are you able to walk?" she asks.

Though his head is turned in her direction, his eyes still haven't focused and he doesn't look directly at her, or look at her mouth as she speaks.

_ Is he blind? _ The thought comes to mind quickly, but is ignored when he speaks.

"I-I think so," he murmurs.

She adjusts his grip to let him drape his arm over her as she lets him lean against her. "Okay, step," she says, slowly taking a step forward. She waits for him to take a measured step forward and holds on tightly to help him keep his footing.

They walk all the way to the bed like this, Tanavyr getting slower and weaker with every step they take. As Morgia helps him back onto the bed, she glances at the strange ice on his leg. "So… what did you do?" she asks.

"I… what?" he asks in a daze.

"Your leg."

"It's magic, for burns," he whispers, nearly out of breath. "Helps it heal," he adds, letting his head drop onto the pillow.

Tanavyr is asleep within moments of resting his head, even with his legs still dangling over the edge of the bed. Morgia carefully lifts him the rest of the way before covering him with more wool blankets and furs. As Morgia walks over to her own bed, too exhausted to stay up looking after him anymore, Lovi hops up and curls around Tanavyr, nuzzling his head under the elf's hand.

Morgia, too, falls asleep quickly after getting into bed.


	4. Chapter 4

_ 25th of Morning Star, 4E 201 _

Tanavyr doesn't wake until the next morning. When he does, Morgia is walking around the room, though he can't quite figure out what she's doing, and the dog is on his chest making it difficult to breathe. Tanavyr groans, attempting to sit up despite the animal before giving up and petting its head.

Morgia drops something small that clatters when it hits the ground at the noise. "You're awake!"

Tanavyr blinks groggily. "How long," he interrupts himself with a yawn. "Was I asleep?" he asks.

"A day. I was worried, you know. I thought you'd done yourself in for good this time," she says.

_ She cares? _

Tanavyr rubs at his eyes and brushes hair out of his face before patting the dog. A  _ very _ slender dog that is probably as long as half of his own height, and not at all easy to move when its sleeping on his chest and legs. He gives the dog a light push but it doesn't move. He tries again but the dog doesn't budge.

_ I can't move, _ he thinks.  _ I can't… I need to… _ Tanavyr pushes the dog as hard as he can, pushing it back a few inches but otherwise unable to release himself.

As Tanavyr's breath and heartbeat begins to quicken, Morgia seems to notice his plight. "Lovi, time to get down," she calls. Immediately, the dog stands up and jumps off the bed, padding away. "Good boy!"

Tanavyr sits up quickly, rubbing at his wrists to remind himself that he's not in bonds.  _ You're okay _ , he tells himself as he slows his breathing. He feels sweat dripping down from his forehead, unrelated to his own stress, and realizes that aside from a dog, there are blankets piled over him.  _ Why so many…? _ He pushes them aside quickly, relieved by the cool air on his skin.

_ Right, the burn. _ He winces at the thought, hoping it doesn't hurt as much as it had the day before as he places his hand over the ice he'd left on it. A careful spell, and the ice splits down the middle and falls off of his leg with no difficulty. Tanavyr cautiously places a finger to the skin and, finding it painless and good shape, begins examining the state of the burn.

It feels warmer to the touch than the rest of his skin, indicating that it hasn't fully healed, but its smoothness tells him he caught it early enough to keep it from scarring or causing any major damage. A few days more, and it will be like it was never there.

He sighs in relief. He can feel the scars where the iron shackles used to be, remembers old injuries that left their mark… He  _ really _ didn't want another scar to add to the collection, to give people even more to question about him.

"Are you hungry?" Morgia asks, sounding closer than before.

Tanavyr grimaces, though he does his best to hide it. "Maybe something colder," he murmurs, absently rubbing at his burned leg.

Which reminds him-- he takes the ice he'd cast his leg in and holds it between his hands, mouthing a spell to let the ice melt and dissipate into the air as if it'd never been there, disappearing in small cloud of steam.

Morgia gasps beside him as he does, impressed by the small display. "You seem to know a lot of magic," she whispers.

He frowns. "Not nearly as much as I'd like."

He spreads out his fingers, readying another spell. The room he's apparently spent nearly two days in finally comes into clarity as a pulse of magic moves through the space. To his right is a wall, he knows, but he notices he'd narrowly avoided tripping over barrels lined up against it. To his left, the fireplace, an open space around it, another bed opposite the one he's in, and more barrels.  _ It's small, _ he realizes. Ahead of him is the door, a long table and bench, and more barrels.  _ Very small. _

He doesn't mind. After spending days in endless tunnels, he's glad to be somewhere he can't get lost in.

No longer weak and starving, Tanavyr kicks his legs over the left side of the bed and slowly stands. Morgia takes a step back to give him more room to move and he notices Lovi only a few feet behind her at the foot of the bed. He steps around Morgia to make his way over to the dog that has caused him so much trouble. The dog that had also guided him out of the house without tripping and seemed to have tried very hard to keep him warm, even if he didn't need it.

"Lovi, is it?" he asks.

"Yeah," Morgia answers.

Tanavyr kneels in front of him, rubbing his chin. "Thank you, Lovi," he whispers. He pats the dog's head before standing again, turning to Morgia. Once again, he brings his hands flat to his chest, one atop the other, and leans far enough forward that his hair slides over his shoulders. "Thank you, for saving me… I think… I would be dead, without you."

Morgia laughs. "Well, Lovi is the one that led me to you, so I can't take all the credit."

He rises back to standing, pushing his hair back again. "I promise I won't stay any longer than I must."

"This again?" she says, a hint of irritation in her voice. "You know I meant it when I said you could stay as long as you'd like. It's not often anything interesting happens in this town-- though, when my father returns, he might disagree with me." She laughs at that, as if it's less important than she makes it sound. "Anyway, there's an inn in town, so it's not like you need my permission to be here anyway."

He tilts his head. "There's an inn?" he asks.

"Mm, and they don't often get anyone that isn't a pilgrim so they'd probably find you exciting," she says.

Tanavyr wrings his hands together, not certain what she's referring to. "What pilgrimage do people come here for?"

Morgia pauses and Tanavyr wonders if he's asked the wrong question of her. "Oh, I guess an elf may not care enough to know. I just assumed everyone knew," she murmurs.

_ Elf? _ he thinks.  _ She's… human?  _ He freezes in place, feeling his muscles tense.  _ Why did she help me? Why… why hasn't she killed me? _

"They come to walk the Seven Thousand Steps to the Throat of the World," she explains. "It's really the  _ only _ reason anyone comes here, to be honest, except the odd trader."

He nods, though he's not familiar with any of the places she mentions. But his thoughts are elsewhere, regardless. What does she mean to do with him? Is she hoping he'll let his guard down? He rubs his forehead.  _ She saved your life. Give her  _ some  _ credit. _

"If that's the only reason, why are you here?" he asks carefully. He knows she won't readily give her true intentions, but perhaps she, too, will let her guard down eventually.

But she sighs wistfully instead. "I grew up here. This farm is my father's, and I guess I'm fond enough of the town but… it's small. Save the rare trip to Riften, nothing really changes here."

"Riften?" he asks.

Morgia laughs. "You really aren't from the area. It's the city on the other side of the lake, and not a great place to go visiting without reason."

"I see," he whispers. He leaves questions be for the moment and makes his way over to the bench and table. He sits on the very edge, still facing her, and steeples his fingers together. "I admit I… I don't really know where I am."

She takes a gentle step closer to him. "You mentioned that, yesterday. How long were you lost in the storm?" she asks.

Tanavyr furrows his brows. "I don't know. I haven't really had a place or much of a goal in mind for a long time now."

She pauses, mulling over his words and coming to sit beside him. He tenses again at her approach. "Where  _ are _ you from?" she asks. "I've never seen clothing like yours."

"O-Oh," he breathes. "I'm from the north. These… these aren't really mine. It's just what I was given," he whispers. "I hadn't really given them much thought-- are they really that strange?"

Morgia giggles, and listening to the sound Tanavyr wonders if she truly means him any harm at all. "They are. And frankly I'm shocked you weren't frozen solid when I found you, you're barely wearing anything." Tanavyr shifts uncomfortably and rubs at his arm. "S-Sorry, I didn't mean to insult you," she adds quickly.

An awkward silence follows, with Morgia embarrassed with herself and Tanavyr still second guessing her intentions. Eventually, they settle into the silence. Tanavyr sits at the table, not entirely sure what to do with himself. Morgia brings him grilled fish and bread which occupies him for a little while, but otherwise he pets Lovi whenever he approaches and listens to Morgia work.

And the longer he listens, the more he wonders if she's really anything like the other humans he's encountered.

.

A few hours pass before Morgia joins him at the table again. "I think I mentioned my father, right?" Tanavyr nods. "Well, he was traveling when the blizzard came, and he was supposed to be back last night."

Tanavyr frowns. "You're worried about him."  _ And so am I. _ Morgia seems kind enough, but his trust doesn't extend very far, and certainly not to a different human.

"Yeah…" she whispers. "I don't know if he got caught up in the storm. The weather's calm now but… it's too late to go searching for him."

He isn't sure how he feels about the implication that she doesn't know if her father is  _ dead or alive. It's too familiar _ , he thinks and bites his lip. "I'm sorry," he finally whispers, not sure what to say to her.

"Oh I didn't mean to… what I meant is, tomorrow morning I'm going to go searching for him," she says. She shifts in her seat and Tanavyr realizes she's looking right at him. "So I guess my point is, what do you need while I'm gone?"

Tanavyr raises a brow. "You would leave a stranger alone in your house?"  _ That's foolish. _

Morgia scoffs. "Why? Is  _ this stranger _ going to do something he'll regret if he's left alone?"

He laughs and shakes his head, turning towards her. "No.  _ This stranger _ is going to climb the mountain with you."

The human's demeanor changes, suddenly very serious. "You are  _ not _ ."

"It's the least I can do to repay you," he whispers.

"No," she says immediately. "You're staying put, you're going to rest, and you're  _ not coming _ . It's easier if I don't need to lead anyone up the path, and I need the time to speak with my father anyway."

Tanavyr swallows.  _ Right, because he has no idea she brought a stranger into their home. _ "I don't mean to upset you. If you wish to go alone, I won't try to force your hand."

"Thank you," she says, a little calmer and less serious than a moment before.

She stands, returning to her work in the home. Tanavyr tries to relax, though he finds it difficult, especially when he's sitting still with nothing to do.

"I still need to know," she says as she walks past him, moving onto another task.

"Know what?" he asks.

She pauses mid-step. "What will you need while I'm away? It shouldn't be more than a few hours."

The elf shrugs, crossing his arms casually. "I don't need anything."

Morgia takes a step closer. "I  _ want _ to help you, you know. You don't have to act like there's nothing you need."

Tanavyr grimaces. "Really, I don't need anything," he repeats, lying through his teeth.  _ It's already enough to rely on you so much already. _ "I can't imagine I would find myself needing anything for only a few hours."

"Well, if you  _ find _ you need something, please let me know," she says.

Morgia returns to her work once again and Tanavyr begins fidgeting with his clothing, not sure what to do with himself. He doesn't want to use any more magic lest he have need of it later, and regardless, he doesn't want her to know the extent of his knowledge. But he doesn't want to ask her for something to do either. He's afraid to break the silence, to invite any questions or conversations she doesn't start herself, and on a more petty side, he doesn't want to admit that there _ is _ something he needs after so adamantly refusing. So he sits still, trying to hide his discomfort. He eventually pulls his knees against his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs and resting his chin between them.

Several times through the rest of the night he hears Morgia take a breath as if preparing to speak, but she never does. He wonders how she feels about him, if she truly means to help, if she trusts him as little as he trusts her.

He wishes his mother were here. There was no such thing as idleness with her and Tanavyr was always wanting for work for his hands, a combination that worked in each's favor.

He presses his forehead against his knees, squeezing his eyes shut.

_ I need to find her. _

.

Morgia spends an hour in the morning preparing to leave. Tanavyr wakes to the first hint of activity and lies in bed through the rest, not quite ready to speak to her. He waits with his eyes shut until Morgia approaches him, gently placing her hand on his shoulder to wake him.

The elf blinks a few times as he sits up and brushes his hair out of his face.

"My father hasn't returned, so I'll be leaving," Morgia says as she pulls her hand away. "Here.” She places a plate in his hand and takes a step back. "There's porridge in the cook pot if you get hungry later. I'll be back by tonight, with or without Father. I trust you won't make a mess of things or take things you shouldn't."

The bite in her tone gives him a sense that Morgia has  _ several _ ideas of how to deal with him if he abuses her hospitality, none of which he has any desire to discover.

"I promise you have nothing to fear," he says.

“Good,” she says with a brighter tone.

Tanavyr examines the plate while Morgia shuffles over to the table.  _ A bit of bread and dried fish,  _ he notes.  _ Maybe I’ll have some porridge sooner than later. _ But he’s not one to be picky, or rude enough to complain, so he eats his meal quickly and gratefully.

When he finishes, Morgia comes back over to take the plate. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Better,” he whispers.

Morgia shifts. “Good, good. Listen, there’s a set of folded clothing on the bench. It’s my father’s, so hopefully it’ll fit you well enough—it’ll be much warmer, at least.” Morgia pauses, waiting for him to respond, and so Tanavyr nods in understanding. “If you’re up to it, you can take a bath. There’s a tub in the basement and you can heat some water from the river over the fire. Anyway, if you change I’ll wash your clothes tomorrow when I do the chores.”

Tanavyr nods again. “Thank you, Morgia,” he says. His voice is still soft, but not quite a whisper this time.

.

Morgia leaves with the first hint of the morning light, taking the dog with her. Tanavyr wastes no time in following her suggestion and quickly leaves for the river, change of clothing in hand.

The snow is piled high under his feet, and he has to climb a snow mound shortly after leaving the house. But to his fortune, there doesn’t seem to be any people around. His fingers twitch with a pulse of magic as he walks and it doesn’t take him long to get the lay of the land. Morgia’s home is situated on the edge of a farm field and surrounded by a small but sturdy stone fence just barely peeking above the snow. A gate leading out of the farm and towards the river stands ahead and to the right of the house, though with the height of the snow he simply steps over the fence instead.

Her farm is on the path right beside the river. Tanavyr finds comfort in it as he follows beside it, walking long enough to be sure he won’t be discovered by anyone else, but the further he walks the more he realizes that there isn't anyone  _ here _ to discover him.  _ This town really  _ is  _ small. _

Tanavyr stops fifteen minutes out of town without encountering a soul. The river bank here is shallow with large rocks covered in snow. He steps towards the water, submerging his feet. It rushes past in a constant flow, but not enough to threaten his balance. He smiles as he pulls his hair out of its ponytail, shaking his head to loosen it up. He tosses the change of clothes onto a snow bank before beginning the tedious process of unraveling his bandages and setting them down on the snow. When he finishes, he wades deeper into the frigid water, letting it reach his chest.

He takes a deep breath and leans into the river, crouching until he can hear nothing but the rush of the water, feel nothing but the icy current brushing past his skin. He pulls off the rest of his clothing and bundles it together, holding it close to his chest.

He sits until he can hold his breath no longer. He adjusts to rest on his knees and pokes his head out of the river. He tosses his clothes onto the snow, takes another breath, and dives back into the water.

Tanavyr sits in the riverbed, focusing on the sound and feeling of the stream and clearing his mind. A fish swims around him once, twice, then leaves. River grass grazes against him with the current. Though he occasionally rises to take a breath, he sits otherwise undisturbed for an hour, taking in the serenity of it.

The only thoughts he can't seem to shake is that of his mother and Morgia. He doesn't know where he is, doesn't even know where to  _ begin _ to search for his mother. And Morgia… How can he possibly repay her, when he has nothing to his name? Try as he might to focus only on his surroundings and senses, the thoughts creep in with unwanted tenacity.

When he finally gives up on his meditation, he sets to work. He begins gently cleaning his skin to wipe away weeks of grime. Then he wrings his hair and gently runs his fingers through it until there are no knots and no dirt remaining.

When he finally steps onto the river bank, he flicks his hand and the water leaves him instantly in a light fog. The clothing Morgia lent him only sort of fits-- the pants are a couple inches above his ankles and the tunic is baggy, meant for someone bulkier than him. He washes his own clothing, too, though with Morgia's comments on their strangeness he's in no rush to put them back on. Besides, he never chose them, and he has no desire to wear them any longer than he  _ has _ to.

Tanavyr jogs back to the house, glad to find that Morgia has not returned yet. He sits on the rug in front of the fire, comforted in its warmth now that he's no longer swaddled in blankets and furs, and begins wrapping his wrists, ankles, and neck in bandages once more. When he finishes, he folds himself in a large, fluffy fur, the soft texture soothing and light enough not to cause him to overheat.

As he begins to relax, he contemplates his dilemma of repaying Morgia. She had seemed interested in his magic, hadn't she? Maybe, if he finds her intentions as kind as she claims, he can teach her something.

His eyelids begin to feel heavy and he second guesses himself.  _ You cannot trust a human with that kind of knowledge. _

As he drifts into sleep, he reaches a decision.  _ Make something to show her your gratitude. _


End file.
